


Overripe Words

by crackinthecup



Series: A Cup of Chaos [8]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (oh look there is an actual tag for that), Asphyxiation, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M, a tiny Maedhros allusion, angbang, two hapless orc captains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4489887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Mairon fails to hold his tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overripe Words

The great hall of Angband grew chill. Air gusted over Mairon’s cheeks like prickling ice crystals, and from his desk to the right side of the throne he glanced upward. Two orc captains shivered at the foot of the dais, breath congealing into misty puffs, and at the thunder rumbling in his lord’s throat, the one who had been speaking scuffed an instinctive step backward. 

“There is dissent among the troops, m’lord,” his companion faltered, and Mairon’s attention ossified into a frown. “They—” He shuddered through an exhale, teeth clacking with the cold. “Some speak against the sortie. Whispers of the red-haired terror have—” 

Melkor raised charred fingers, and the orc gulped down his words. “It is but a patchwork cripple that they breathe into unfounded legend,” the Vala sneered, and like scree did his voice pelt the captains. “Let these gainsayers air their grievances before me themselves. The plan I shall not renege, and it would not be wise for any under your command to forget that breaking the siege is our paramount imperative.” 

The orcs crumpled into a succession of shallow bows like puppets shaken upon the string; yet their lieutenant brushed aside the annotated map he had been studying, and as an undercurrent his voice sucked them into a halt. 

“My lord, the scheme is unsustainable withal.” A lightning gaze gashed toward him, and Mairon met the stare with a subtle press of the lips; the old argument resurfaced. 

His words were countered with silence that needled, that curled around the neck and strangled, and in a frigid flurry the braziers wavered and dimmed as Melkor growled, “You are overstepping your jurisdiction, lieutenant.” 

Mairon’s resolve blistered over his lips: “Over the plain of Lothlann the Noldor wield an open outlook. Stealth would be rendered null, and at present we have not the strength to—” 

“ _Enough_.” The hiss had not yet slithered into the hush of the hall when Melkor signaled dismissal with a flick of the wrist; the captains threw a glance toward their lieutenant in unison as with no small amount of relief they departed. 

Mairon remained straight-backed and rigid in his chair, the gold in his irises boiling, twin hollows of discontent scooped out of the corners of his mouth. His master allowed the moment to curdle; seconds trundled past heaving with smoking cinders that scorched down the throat and choked. 

At last Melkor lounged back into his throne, knees splayed akimbo, and tipped the syllables out in a drawl: “I trust you can at least manage to find us some rope if holding to your duties is too challenging an endeavor?” 

“Beg pardon?” 

“Fetch it, Mairon,” the Vala husked, and the unhallowed scintilla in his eyes glutted on the glow of the Silmarils. “You know where it is.” 

The shriek of his chair across smooth marble faded into bleating percussion as stiffly he stood and stiffly still he walked across the hall to an alcove laughing open-mouthed from the wall. A wooden box was perched there, polished and punched through with curlicues of black metal. With a sizzle of energy at his fingertips Mairon unlocked the keyless lid to snake out a familiar coil of rope. 

“Come here,” Melkor purred with a feline blink of the eyes, and Mairon came; up the steps of the dais he let habit animate him, and he stopped at the tilt of his master’s pelvis, pressing the rope into his hand. The Vala twirled it around his wrist, slowly, oh so slowly, and Mairon found himself watching as one might the sway of a cobra. 

“Strip,” rolled the command, and how ravenously Melkor smiled as with a blank expression his lieutenant peeled off his tunic, his breeches, his leather boots, numb, numb through the burn of his master’s eyes upon bare skin. 

It was when Melkor bade him turn around, when his wrists were corralled into the vise of the rope at the small of his back, that numbness splintered and gouts of ire pulsed in his gut. “The sortie cannot succeed,” he bit out in something too resentful to be a whisper. 

“No,” Melkor agreed, manhandling him into a spin until he faced the throne once more. “We shall harry the vermin from the coast, as you have so ardently suggested of late.” 

Gut-wrenched indignation sputtered over Mairon’s lips, and his master’s touch upon him savaged, a rough clutch of the flesh. “Yet,” Melkor drilled on, “I confess myself disappointed. Do you deem it your _place_ , Mairon, to loosen your tongue into backchat? That mouth of yours appears to be suitable for one thing only, after all: on your knees.” 

An ice pick of hurt had speared through Mairon’s innards at his master’s words, and now a shake of the head was being wrung out of him, a tottering step backward. Yet the Vala’s fingers hooked into his hips in an oozing rupture of capillaries, and a hand at the chin yanked his head out of its droop. “You heard me,” Melkor snapped, and such peril thrummed behind the words that the Maia sank to the cold marble without another murmur of protest. 

Fingers scraped up his face to fist at his roots as Melkor parted folds of fabric to slip his softened length free. Mairon’s head was jerked between the Vala’s thighs, and in a shutter of eyelids he steeled himself; the ghost of that hurt he blew away, the righteous churn and roil of anger he coddled. The Maia parted his lips, scooped up his master’s cock—it was but a mechanical cadence, the teasing suction round the head, the lap of his tongue over the tracery of veins. Yet—yet in spite of his ministrations, the Vala did not stiffen. 

He heard Melkor snort out a sigh, the fingers in his hair tightening all the more. “Come now, Mairon,” he snarled down at him, “much more heartily did you take up the venture last night.” Crimson splattered over the Maia’s cheeks, and he glared up at his master. With a curl of the lip Melkor all but threw him away, and Mairon’s glower splintered into a wince, a cry of pain dislodged from his throat, as his master clouted him across the face. 

“Even now you prove yourself impudent,” the Vala jeered, looking stolidly upon his lieutenant’s whimper, his attempt at working his jaw, at ascertaining a fracture; Melkor reached for him once more with a scoff. “The bone is not broken. Believe me, Mairon, if that had been my intent, you would be in no doubt.” 

A bare-boned moment of hesitation, his cheek throbbing with the brutality of the slap—his master tugged him closer, and tentatively Mairon laved at his sac; the contact was greeted with a sharp inhalation, and with the bold hope that it might be over sooner, the Maia licked a flat-tongued stripe up his length. Glistening lips closed once again over the tip, cheeks hollowed, and Mairon at last felt the belated stir of ardor in his master’s flesh. 

The Vala started maneuvering his head, steering him into plunges down his erection, plunges that soon slammed into the back of his throat and hooked gagging convulsions out of him. And when his master burrowed into the back of his skull with both hands, holding him in place as his length nudged down his throat, Mairon choked, involuntary tears smearing over his cheeks; Melkor slid deeper still, crushing him to his pelvis, and as the trickle of air down his trachea was stoppered, he began to struggle. 

“This is not for your enjoyment, little Maia,” Melkor tsked, as Mairon felt the panic of empty lungs snapping through him, as a wordless whine of protest blared in his throat. “I must say, though, you do respond so _charmingly_.” The Vala’s boot sneaked between his knees and hefted them apart, and with devious pressure his master tapped the sole against his length, hardening as it was through the familiarity of Melkor’s taste on his tongue. “My, Mairon, aren’t we eager, now?” 

The Maia’s hips crashed away from that awful contact—or was it closer, canting into the scratch of the sole? In his strain for breath he could not tell. And then inch by flaming inch Melkor was dragging his head back, and Mairon knelt there, swaying, gobbling up prickling lungfuls of air through the spittle drooling from his lips. 

The Vala ground his boot against his cock, and Mairon lurched from his position; a gasp sprang into the air, and through the reflex part of his lieutenant’s lips Melkor once more rammed his length. Fresh tears clustered at the corners of Mairon’s eyes with each gagging impact, as his master hauled his head into rhythm, as his tongue darted out over the slit and the fluid dribbling there. 

In one rip of a movement Melkor shoved him away, angling his head upward with a tug on the roots. His free hand he clasped about his own shaft, pumping in a blur as he grunted out his climax. A web of his seed spurted over Mairon’s face, clinging to his hair, splashing over his lips, and forced into stillness as he was, the sheer degradation of it smothering his rage, he closed his eyes and waited for his master to finish. 

Melkor unhanded him, and he plummeted back atop his heels. In gleeful appraisal the Vala bent his eyes upon him, upon the seed dripping from him, the redness scored about his eyes, and with a smile he rubbed his thumb over the stains on his lieutenant’s lips, he worked the taste into his mouth. 

“Now, isn’t this what well-behaved boys do?” his master crooned, and Mairon twisted his head away as wrongness clawed up his throat. Melkor stood, he padded out a circle around the Maia and stooped to unknot the rope about his wrists. “Clean yourself up however you might,” he murmured, he smirked, and Mairon snatched his hands out of the cradle of the Vala’s fingers. “But do not even think of touching yourself.” 

And with those final words squalling at the Maia’s ear, Melkor strode out of the hall, while Mairon knelt still, swiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand.


End file.
